Summary: Quinn is worried about Mercedes' attraction to Sam and what it may mean.

Rating: Teen

Warning: Mention of racist incident

Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Please note that questions will be answered about the sisters as each chapter progresses.

CHAPTER 2

"He would be able to create a scent that was not merely human, but super human, an angels scent, so indescribably good and vital that who ever smelt it would be enchanted and with his whole heart would have to love him." ― Patrick Süskind

SISTER BOND

Mercedes

Quinn chopped the celery for the chicken soup we were making for dinner. She kept her eyes on the cutting board as she sliced through the long, green stalks; she gripped the knife handle so tightly that her knuckles turned white. I stirred the pot on the stove and dropped in a few sprigs of sage. The kitchen was quiet except for the quiet ticking of the antique cuckoo clock that hung above the doorway, and the knife tapping against the wooden board, but the most deafening noise was the silence between us - it suffocated me. Quinn hunched over the counter, her tangled, blonde hair, hung down her back, in matted knots. I was close enough to pick up her scent, the hot, peppery smell, tickled my nostrils and my eyes watered. She dumped the chopped celery into the pot and glared at me.

"You lied to him."

I reached for her arm, trying to calm her down.

"Quinn, I –"

She stepped back, avoiding contact.

"I know what's going on. I felt the energy change when Sam came. We just got here and everything is shifting."

Quinn's scent grew stronger. It stung my eyes and I began to cough.

"I couldn't help it."

"This can't happen. We're not like them, Mercedes. Every time you get caught up in desire…"

I walked out of the kitchen and into the living with her following close behind me.

"You need to treat him like the other customers."

I sat down on the ugly gold couch. We got it at a yard sale because I was going through a retro phase. Vintage was my style, but now as I looked at it, I wanted to toss it in the nearest dumpster. She sat on the other end of the couch, as far away from me as possible. Her scent was less strong, she was calming down. I could breathe again.

"There was something about him," I said, closing my eyes and remembering Sam's golden hair and green marble eyes, "I don't know. I couldn't help it. I had to know him."

"Like you had to know Anthony?"

Anthony, with his slow swagger and dreams of a Huxtable future. I pushed him from my mind. He wasn't the only one, but somehow his wound out lasted the others. I scooted next to Quinn and put my arm around her. She wanted to pull away but my emotions seeped through, and she allowed for the contact. Her anger dissolved and the peppery stench disappeared and now she smelled like a summer rain shower, her hurt and despair filled my nostrils. For a second we were little girls again hiding from bullies. I hugged her to my heart. I knew all of Quinn's emotions without her ever saying a word and she knew mine.

"He's not a threat," I said.

"Mercedes, I can feel what you're feeling."

"I know."

"Then Sam is a threat."

She pulled away from me.

"He's inside you somehow. Like Anthony was."

"We didn't kiss," I said, placing my hand on her shoulder, "We barely touched."

"You asked to smell him. You didn't ask him what he likes or where he's from, or his favorite places and memories like you're supposed to when you create a scent."

"So you were listening?"

"I told you the energy shifted. His pull is strong."

I twisted a lock of her hair around my finger.

"I'm sorry, but I had to do what I did. I had to know about him. That's why I smelled him."

"And what did you find out?"

"He's grieving."

Quinn looked over at me, her bright blue eyes held a an angry glint.

"I don't like what you're feeling for him. Tell him not to come back."

I held her hand, tracing her palm with my fingers and then intertwined our fingers together. We both had the same heart shaped birthmark on our left thumb. This always made me smile because it was the only physical thing that made us twins. Quinn closed her eyes as my emotions ran through her.

"Could you at least try to make it stop?"

"I wish I could."

She nodded and opened her eyes.

"I don't want to design the bottle for his cologne. Use a pre-made one."

That sort of annoyed me, but I let it slide.

"Ok."

Quinn stared at me a long time, then she said:

"Remember who you are. We're not like them. Those people out there will never understand us. Mama and Papa said so."

I moved away from her, my anger rising.

"I know who I am."

"Then why do you keep doing this? Trying to be like them."

I got up from the couch, pulling her along with me.

"Come on, let's go finish making dinner."

Instead of following me she went over to the desk at the far end of the living room, and picked up the small brown UPS package from Grandma Sadie. It was delivered that morning.

"If you know who you are, then we should look at this."

I started to walk away.

"I think the soup may be boiling over."

"Nothing is boiling over and you know it."

She held out the package to me.

"We should open it. Grandma Sadie said –"

"Not now. Just not now. I'm starving. Let's finish the soup."

Quinn sighed and dropped the package back onto the desk.

ooo

After dinner I sat in front of the fireplace and sipped on a cup of hot chocolate spiked with amaretto while Quinn holed up in her room reading Pride and Prejudice for the millionth time. She loved Jane Austen which is why she named our shop Scents and Sensibility; I thought it was too cutesy but I went along with it anyway, because we were business partners. I felt restless so I got up from the couch and stared out the window. It was snowing again. When we lived in Hawaii, I don't remember it snowing, I just remembered the rain and the cool ocean breezes that tickled our skin. In Alaska, there was nothing but snow, and green and violet lights that danced across the midnight sky. Quinn said the lights were magic and sometimes we made wishes on them. Papa's job as a photojournalist had our family living everywhere. We were nomads.

I wanted a cigarette so bad I could taste it. Quitting was harder than I thought. I needed to focus on something else. My nerves were shot. Quinn, once again, had touched my sore spot. Of course I knew who I was, how could I forget? Did most people smell death in a new car? I took another sip of hot chocolate. North Star was where we would begin again. I liked change and I felt this change was for the best.

I saw a few boxes that needed to be unpacked in the corner. With all my nervous energy, I opened the first one in the stack and realized it was our memory box, filled with pictures, report cards, awards, and other sentimental mementos. I picked up my favorite family photo. It was taken on the front porch of our rented house when we lived in Zimbabwe. Quinn and me were about 7 years old and we wore matching purple sundresses; I sat on Papa's lap while she sat on Mama's. I was all smiles, but Quinn wore a stoic expression, looking just like Papa, and I looked like Mama, who squinted at the camera, smiling sweetly, her big afro fluffed out around her head, her long red halter dress hugged her wide hips, accentuating her plump figure. Papa smiled more with his eyes; he was tall and strong, his pale skin was peeling and sunburned. I remembered how hot it was that day; and the smell of Mama's tropical perfume that made me long for coconut ice cream. The photographer pointed at Mama and me and asked a lot of questions; I didn't understand what language he was speaking but Papa got upset. I couldn't recall why he didn't take the photo himself using the timer on his camera.

People thought I was a foster kid whenever Papa and me went out in public by ourselves; the curious looks we got angered him sometimes. One day when we were in the supermarket buying last minute stuff for a dinner party, somebody called the police because they thought Papa had kidnapped me. Mama raised hell that day when the officer showed up at our house to verify that I was Robert Fabray's little girl. But what really confused people was that I was his biological child and Quinn was my twin. Our birth was fascinating enough to be in magazines and newspapers. I guess not much else was going on in 1984 except that Thriller was burning up the charts. Geneticists said it was rare, though not impossible, to have one twin that looked black and one that looked white born of a white father and black mother. When we were toddlers, Diane Sawyer interviewed Mama and Papa for a nightly news segment about interracial families; Quinn cried the whole time and threw up on Diane. Papa said that was the best part of the interview. I hung the Zimbabwe picture above the couch. We were such a beautiful family. Quinn came into the living room. She gazed at the photo and a smile spread across her pretty face.

"I love that picture."

"Me too. But I wish you had smiled."

"The photographer was mean. He touched my arm."

I was startled when she said that. At a very young age, Quinn avoided physical contact with strangers and was good at keeping her distance.

"What did you feel?"

"He had a black heart."

"Do you want to help me hang up the rest of the pictures?"

"Sure."

Together we hung up a montage of our lives. It eased the tension between us, and when we were done, our living room looked like home. The last thing we hung on the wall were the name pictures we painted together at a craft shop. Mine was all flowery and I used a cursive font: Mercedes Billie Jean Fabray was written across a green meadow filled with violets and roses. And Quinn's was more "artsy," it was like she channeled Van Gogh's Starry Night - heavy yellow swirls and dark blue stars floated across a city in the sky, but it suited her personality, and the name Quinn Latoya Fabray was written inside the iridescent bubbles that hovered above the city. She put her arm around me.

"I'm sorry I made your eyes water."

"That can't be helped Quinn, you know that. It's your scent of anger."

"Well, I'm sorry anyway."

I gave her a hug.

"Don't worry about it."

While we stood there admiring how good the living room now looked, my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and I almost ignored it, but then I thought it might be business related so I answered it.

"Hello"

"So what does grief smell like?"

It was Sam.

End Notes: The biological black and white twins storyline was inspired by a story in the news that happened in the UK. As for the police incident, that recently happened in Virginia when a white father was at a Walmart with his biracial daughters and security grew suspicious thus calling the police. Thanks for reading and reviewing!